Blessed by Fire
by AmphibianQueen
Summary: Eusine finally escapes his bullying father and intolerable brother. However, his life takes an astounding turn in his new home - Ecruteak City. Rated M for later chapters. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_A silver-grey flash of movement skids across the waves at lightning speed, but the sea beneath it remains smooth and calm, the surface undisturbed._

 _I squint more intently in an attempt to catch a glimpse, my hand shielding my eyes from the bright sun above, but I can feel myself waking, and the dashing thing is gone._

-o-

A heavy coldness settles within my chest, and the blood roars through my ears, making my father's words all the harder to comprehend. Tristan, my junior by a year and a half, is smirking at me from behind our father's back – but of course he's not seen. My father's hard, pale eyes are fixed on my face, the small upward curve at the corner of his thin mouth betraying his ill-concealed delight at the situation. I catch only snippets, but the meaning is clear enough.

"…there's no helping you since your mother passed…growing sullen, withdrawn, _nervy_ …need a change of scenery…can't avoid Pokémon all your life…it's in your _blood_ Eusine…Celadon's no good for you anymore… _Ecruteak_ is where you should be…an Ecrutetian…start _acting_ like one…" I must have interjected, for the tone of my father's well-rehearsed monologue changed. I could hear disbelief in his voice now, and a botched attempt to lie smoothly to my face, to downplay their upcoming adventure. Father and son. Father and _true_ son. "Tristan and I? We're taking to the seas…don't be silly Eusine…not your thing…you'd hate every minute…just hunting for a Pokémon…'Suicune'…you're nowhere _near_ that skill level yet…better you go to Ecruteak…get a hold of yourself…"

-o-

I find myself shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in a small shabby living room. My cousin Callisto, who at eighteen is two years older than me, is bustling around the tiny flat, jabbering about spare pillows and blankets and which switch to flick if I want a hot shower. I can barely take in any of what she's saying. I lower my half empty rucksack to the floor, and allow myself to sink heavily into the threadbare sofa. I realise I'm exhausted. I've never travelled so far a distance in so short a time.

"I can't even _remember_ the last time I saw you Eusine," I hear Callisto say. My head feels as though it's been wrenched out of a bucket of water: my ears clear and suddenly everything seems ten times louder. She's staring at me, waiting for a response. I swallow. My throat feels scratchy, and I know my voice is going to rasp.

"Years ago," I croak.

"Definitely years ago, back in Kanto. You don't half look different," she says as she surveys me with a smile. I try to return her smile, but I can't. Instead, my eyes linger on the irises of hers – clear blue, like my father's, like Tristan's. She is what an Ecrutetian _should_ look like. Her hair is fair, and her skin is clear, and her nose straight. In other words, she is my opposite. And I can only guess just how strongly my father would approve of her. I begin to feel embarrassed by her scrutinising me. I haven't had access to a shower for over twenty-four hours, and I can feel my lank brown hair clinging to my skull. I don't realise that I'm coming across as rude - difficult. "I'm sorry it's a bit of a dump," she says, bravely attempting to get more conversation out of me, "and I'm sorry I can only offer you the sofa…money's a bit tight." Her voice lowers, and her eyes are downcast now. I think, with horror, that I'm a burden.

"Callisto –" I break off awkwardly, knowing that I could be condemning myself to a night on the streets, "If me being here – if it's too much for you - I'm sure I can find somewhere else –"

"Don't be stupid!" she interrupts me, "You're no hassle to me at all – I'm just sorry you don't have a bed." I manage to give her a genuine smile this time.

"I don't need a bed to be comfortable," I tell her. And I discover, with a jolt, that I'm telling the truth. I feel a relieving loosening in my chest. I hadn't been aware that it was tight, that my lungs had been constricted and my heart compressed. It was only by the absence of the sensations that I was aware they had existed at all. It would seem that a mere ten minutes in my cousin's cramped flat was sufficient to lessen the effects of ten years of anxiety at the hands of my father.

-o-

It's only been two days, but I already feel at home living with Callisto in Ecruteak City. I surprise myself. Being sent away by my father had initially felt like exile, but once 'exiled', I realised it was better to be alone and to be free. My shoulders feel light, unburdened, and I can hold my head up higher. I'm not known well here – not by sight anyway. The Ecrutetians have never witnessed my father's relentless bullying of me and his obvious preference for my younger brother. Perhaps, here, I can start again. I have never before been able to use my time leisurely. In Celadon City I was never permitted to leave the house alone. Being under my father's constant scrutiny had given me a nervous disposition. As a result I was aware of every movement I made, and every word I spoke. Here, in Ecruteak City, nobody watched me. Even Callisto was barely around; as a Kimono Dancer she was all day in classes, and when she finally arrived home in the late hours of the evening, she flopped into bed after a mumbled "hello" and an easy smile, and would fall sound asleep. This I did not mind. I was still discovering what it meant to be gloriously alone.

Of all the places I discover, Ecruteak's Library is my favourite. Once through the doors, complete tranquillity settles upon me. It's silent, but not the sort of silence I have ever before experienced; silences in my father's home only meant one thing – anger. I had come to associate silence with growing unease; taut necks and gritted teeth. A silence never remained so for long, it always inevitably broke with a red-hot crescendo. But in this library, in this ancient city, the silence had a different quality altogether. It was self-assured somehow, as if the silence _itself_ knew that it need never be broken. It hung heavily about my ears, and yet my very being quivered with the tingling awareness that, beyond this silence, there were hundreds upon thousands of worlds clamouring to be discovered. All I needed to do in order to discover them was open a book. I spent hours amongst the oaken shelves, the squeaky tread of my old trainers muted by the thick burgundy carpet. The librarian came to know me well after a week of daily visits; just a smile and a small nod as I came through the front doors. I was no longer required to ask permission to access the balcony, and on this balcony, overlooking the multitudes of shelves, did I spend my first week, my nose inches from the chosen book in front of me.

-o-

Callisto's pale eyebrows draw downwards in a frown. Her small mouth puckers slightly in apparent distress, and yet I can still appreciate just how very pretty she is.

"Eusine," she says sharply, dropping her bag containing her dance kimono and shoes on the sofa. I look up from where I'm stirring the pasta sauce – I've never heard her sound quite so conflicted. What can I have done?

"What is it?"

Her frown deepens, but she does not respond immediately. I can see the caution in her eyes; she is clearly trying very hard to decide how best to phrase whatever is on the tip of her tongue.

"The Director called me back after practice today," she starts slowly, raising her narrowed eyes to meet mine.

 _The Director?_

"Of the Dance School," she clarifies, noting my confusion. I can feel a tension creeping through my muscles, travelling up my spine and seizing my shoulders. I'm ignorant as to why. Callisto exhales shortly in agitation. She is waiting for me to reply. I realise that she's expecting a reaction; whatever she knows, she assumes that I know it too. But I do not know, and neither do I know how to react to her next words. "Eusine…is your father cruel to you?" My cheeks flame with a surge of hot blood. I recall, in a rush, the snide comments, the eye rolls, and sighs of exasperation; upper lips curling with distaste, an eyebrow raised in contempt, and an endless string of comparisons to Tristan. Callisto does not probe further. I can only imagine the explanation that she gains from the expression in my wide eyes and the redness of my face. "He rang the Dance School," she says, a sour expression passing across her delicate features, "today." The blood rushes to my ears. Again, that roaring. "He asked the Director if he'd managed to make an Ecrutetian woman of you yet." Callisto's voice is trembling. She is furious, I can tell, but I find myself wondering if she is about to cry. The roaring in my ears changes to a high-pitched keening. I can feel my fingers begin to tremble. I grasp the kitchen unit, cool and solid against my perspiring hands. "Eusine?" she implores tentatively.

"He enjoyed telling me that I would never make an Ecrutetian man." Was that hard, empty voice my own?

Callisto's nostrils flare, and the skin around her eyes tightens. She stares at me for a long while, saying nothing. I try to swallow, but my tongue feels too large for my mouth, and my throat does not want to open. However, the ringing in my ears begins to subside and I feel the sharp ache of relief when my rigid fingers finally release the countertop. Callisto sweeps across the room and envelops me tightly in her arms.

"You're worth a hundred of him," she whispers into my ear, "a _thousand_." I nod, my chin bumping against her shoulder. She releases me, but keeps her hands upon my arms, her earnest eyes searching mine. "We don't have to talk about him anymore," she says resolutely. Once again my chest loosens; once again I hadn't realised just how heavy it had become. For Callisto's benefit I arrange my face into what I hope looks like a smile.

"I'd like that very much."

"And tomorrow, when you come to the Dance School, you can tell the Director that he -"

My face burns, the flush shooting down my neck and back. Surely Callisto can feel it herself, I am positively radiating heat.

"The Dance School?" my voice sounds high, as I interrupt her; _strained_ , "Callisto - I'm not a -"

"Nonsense," she scoffs with a toss of her ash-blonde hair, "the Dance School isn't for _girls_ \- it's for Self-Contemplation."

"For _what_?" I ask, my mouth falling open. I feel my eyebrow quirk upwards in derision, and I promptly rearrange my face. I don't want to be anything like _him_.

"Self-Contemplation; it's one of the ways we attempt to become one with Pokémon…battling, of course, is the other way."

I try extremely hard to keep the scepticism from my face. She's completely serious, and I don't wish her to think less of me. She's already coming to feel more like my family than my father and brother ever did.

"Callisto…I don't really have any – any _desire_ to become 'one' with Pokémon." She laughs to my surprise, a tinkling wind chime laugh, and her eyes sparkle gleefully.

"That's because you don't understand them."

"I can't see how a _dance class_ can help." I can feel my innards writhe. A _dance class_. I picture Tristan's sneering, mocking face. I _cannot_ attend a dance class. It will confirm everything that he ever thought of me; soft, delicate, mute, _weak_. Callisto rolls her eyes at my reaction, but I can tell she isn't annoyed.

"You can't understand until you've experienced it yourself - and I know what you're thinking, I can see it in your eyes. When your father grew up here, it _was_ just a dance school aimed at girls…but things have changed. The Ecruteak Dance School is _far_ from effeminate, trust me. Mortyattends every practice," she says matter-of-factly. My face is blank. This name means nothing to me. "Morty - my cousin on my father's side?" she clarifies. I nod slowly. " _Pyrrhos Makarios_ ," she then states.

 _Pyrrhos Makarios_. Blessed by Fire.

"What do you mean?" I ask carefully. Callisto peers steadfastly into my eyes. She knows I'm not asking for a translation. Everyone with Ecrutetian blood has heard of _Pyrrhos Makarios_. Her smile is non-committal, and her eyes are guarded. She is daring me to contradict her. She knows something I do not.

"It's real this time," she says simply.

Unwillingly, I hear my father's voice reverberate inside my head: _"'Pyrrhos Makarios' my arse! It'll be another crackpot old codger who realises he's on his way out, looking for some spiritual enlightenment - or some old hag who's gone senile._ Blessed by Fire _indeed…"_

I had heard of it, of course I had, but it was a myth, a fantastical myth. Callisto must be able to see my inward struggle; I can feel the scepticism shaping the lines of my face. I desperately search for a response that doesn't sound derisive, but she cuts in before I can speak.

"Come with me tomorrow," she says, still smiling her mysterious smile, "you can decide for yourself."

-o-

 _A silver-grey flash of movement skids across the waves at lightning speed, but the sea beneath it remains smooth and calm, the surface undisturbed._

 _I squint more intently in an attempt to catch a glimpse, my hand shielding my eyes from the bright sun above, but I can feel myself waking, and the dashing thing is gone._

-o-

Callisto has insisted over and over that it isn't 'dancing' as such, that it's a way of moving your body and engaging with your mind that helps you to connect with Pokémon. I want to believe her, but I can't. It sounds like dancing to me – and I can't imagine anything worse. But she wants me to come, to see it for myself, and I don't wish to disappoint her. She turns to flash me a quick smile, before she places her small hand upon the handle of the door to Ecruteak's Dance School, and slips inside. Taking a deep breath, I follow her.

The hall is large and warmly lit with brass lanterns; the intricate wooden beams supporting the roof are carved in the shape of Pokémon – of Eevees I think. The air is heavy with the rich smokiness of burning incense. I glance around. Despite Callisto's assurances, I see only females in the room, and each has an Eevee – or rather, an evolved form of one. A blinding flash of light to my left reveals another Eevee, a black one with golden rings upon its fur. An Umbreon? The Pokémon follows my cousin lithely to the centre of the hall, where she engages in conversation with her friends. Feeling awkward, and very much out of place, I move to the side of the hall to sit on the low wooden benches. It's what Callisto advised me to do. From here I can watch, without having to make a fool of myself by partaking. Not yet anyway, she had teased.

An elderly, and yet upright, man appears on the raised stage at the far end of the hall. His moustache is impeccably neat, and his suit crisp and clean. His dark eyes twinkle merrily, and I decide that I like him. The Director.

"Take your positions everyone!" he calls in his warm, authoritative voice. The girls and their Pokémon stand in formation throughout the hall. An older woman in a navy blue kimono is seated against the stage, and she begins to play the shamisen. Callisto is right, to an extent. The strange movements that she and the other females are employing do not look like a choreographed dance, and yet the fluidity of their steps, the grace of their arms, and the carriage of their slim necks makes the whole exercise mesmerising. Mesmerising too is the reaction of their Pokémon. They are not mimicking the steps of the girls; it's more than that. The Pokémon are moving in harmony with them, using their own steps, and yet, somehow, the humans and the Pokémon complement each other perfectly. They are in sync both mentally and physically.

"Excellent," the Director says quietly, and yet his voice carries across the room. The tone of the shamisen changes; it is now faster, more sprightly, and the dancers and their Pokémon change their technique accordingly. I watch Callisto with pride, for she is clearly the most beautiful, the most skilled. Her lips remain in a half smile. She and Umbreon move with one another, despite her eyes being closed in total satisfaction from the experience. I can feel my mouth fall open, and yet I don't think to close it. I realise that I must look gormless, but here, in this room, I know I won't be judged. I have never before seen anything like this – and they know it. But had I found their 'dancing' fascinating before, it was nothing to what it had become now. What was fluid now became perfect, what was graceful became weightless, and the happiness on the girls' faces transformed into pure ecstasy. The Pokémon too change noticeably, their steps become lighter, and their movements more supple; they seem not to move with the music but, rather, through it. They are a part of it.

I start.

My preoccupation with the 'dance' meant that I had failed to notice the arrival of another. A young man, about my age, sits casually atop the stage, his legs dangling. I don't know how, but I know for certain that it's _his_ presence that so transformed the dancers. They seem to gravitate towards him unconsciously.

I find myself staring.

His beauty chokes me. Without glowing, he somehow appears to glow. Or does everything simply appear dim in comparison with him? His beauty is not contemporary but ancient, timeless. Even Callisto, whom until now I have considered flawless, has nothing on her cousin. For who else can this be but Morty – _Pyrrhos Makarios_? Never before have I conceived that a man could be beautiful. Handsome, yes; for I knew that my father and brother were considered this, but _beautiful_? It is not a beauty that I am able to comprehend. My throat constricts and my very soul seems to ache. Tears spring to my eyes. He is not, he _cannot_ be quite human. There is something more to him that I am unable to make sense of. Normal people, people like me, don't have the capacity to process such utter flawlessness. It's too much. I can't stay here. And so I run.


	2. Chapter 2

The book, which had captivated my attention for the past two days, lies closed in front of me upon the table. I have no desire to pick it up. Perhaps I shouldn't have come here, perhaps the library with its overwhelming silence is not a wise place to attempt to escape the storm of thoughts and images that pervade my mind. My initial shock has turned to anger, and to spite. I had thought that by coming here to Ecruteak City I could once and for all forget the cruel expectations of my father. I would never be what he wanted. I was not handsome, I was not well-proportioned, and I haven't even any skill with Pokémon to redeem myself in his eyes. Callisto I could deal with. She is beautiful, yes, she is skilled with Pokémon, yes, but she is also female. She is no rival for me. I can live comfortably in her shadow for I can never be her – nor can I aspire to be. But _he_ –

I force myself to swallow down the burning bile that surges up my throat. He's everything I will never be, and everything I know my father would want me to be. I hate him. I don't want him to be here. I don't want to continually spend my life in the shadow of another, knowing in my heart that I am not as skilled, not as beautiful, not as Ecrutetian. I feel the bile surge up my throat once again, and this time I can't hold it back. I vomit quietly into my rucksack, tears streaming from my eyes and down my cheeks to roll miserably off my chin. I wonder if it's simply me – am I programmed this way? Am I unable to function knowing that I'm not the best? But I have never been the best, and can never expect to be. All I wish is not to be the worst. And yet I always am.

Despair is replaced with cold fury. Getting up abruptly from my usual seat, I scan the shelves trying to find a book devoted to Ecrutetian mythology. My neck begins to ache from reading the titles, tilted to the side as it is, but it's not long until I find what I'm looking for. 'Firelight', the book is called, another name for Ho-Oh, the Guardian of the Skies. _Pyrrhos Makarios_. There is a chapter. I read. I scoff. Ridiculous. It's all so ridiculous. There is not a shred of proof that Ho-Oh even exists, let alone that it has _blessed_ anyone to carry out its work. My eyes fly across the paragraphs, and I can feel my sceptical grin grow wider with every turning page. Away from the Dance Hall, with its ethereal music and captivating atmosphere, I find it near impossible to believe that one young man can have so much influence - that he can actually be so perfectly flawless.

" _Bridge the gap between humankind and Pokémon…"_

" _Able to detect purity in the hearts of men…"_

" _Mind of a different calibre…"_

" _Able to read what the rest of us are blind to…"_

My body relaxes the more I read, and I wonder how I was so easily swayed, even for that short period of time. There are no legends, and there is no _Pyrrhos Makarios_. People will believe what they wish to believe, despite the evidence of cool, hard fact. I think of Morty now, with contempt. How very arrogant he must be to allow others to fawn over him in such a way, to lead them to believe that he is anything special, whereas in reality he was simply blessed with a prettier face than most – not even something that a man should feel particularly proud of.

I return the book to its shelf, satisfied. Yes, I will return to the Dance School, not to 'dance' but to observe once again. I can't deny that I find the practice fascinating, but more than that I wish to see Morty again, to see him again now that my eyes have been truly opened. I won't be blinded this time by his symmetrical features, and the air of superiority that he gives off. Ecruteak is just as much _my_ city, and I refuse to feel an underdog once again.

-o-

I am strangely light-headed as I follow Callisto once again to the Dance School. It's been three days since the last session, but my heartbeat begins to pick up as we approach the weathered oak doors to the hall. I can feel my heart fluttering uncomfortably beneath my ribcage, and my palms begin to perspire. I wipe them hurriedly against my jeans.

Callisto hadn't mentioned my running from the last session: in fact, she hadn't mentioned the last session at all. I was secretly relieved about this; I don't think I could have coherently answered her on anything to do with it _had_ she questioned me – and I certainly wasn't feeling up to partaking myself. Assuming that I ever _would_ be, that is. The doors swing open, and the heady, cloying scent of incense hits me again in the back of the throat.

He is here already.

I'm not expecting this, and I feel the muscles in my neck seize, the sensation spreading across my shoulders which hunch forwards automatically. My mouth is dry. Over the last three days I have planned this scenario painstakingly inside my head, and every time it has been _me_ that arrives first. In this way, I am able to ignore him when he finally makes an entrance. I can then glance quickly at him, just to ascertain that he is _not_ perfect, that he is _not_ as impeccably flawless as my brain seems to recall. But he is here already. I don't realise that I'm gaping open-mouthed like a half-wit, not until his head turns from where he's in mid-conversation with an old Sage, and his curious eyes meet mine from across the room. I ram my jaw shut, my teeth hitting each other with a snap. Cursing my pale complexion, for I can feel my humiliation clearly upon my cheeks, I make my way to the side of the hall once again, to perch uncomfortably on the wooden bench. I can't bring myself to look up, and so I stare and stare at the dirty white laces of my trainers. He remains talking to the Sage on the other side of the hall, but still I refuse to raise my head, and I keep my gaze fixed steadily downwards.

I manage to keep my head down until the class begins. The music is just as I remember; simultaneously exotic and haunting. It takes everything I have to keep staring down at my pale hands placed awkwardly on my lap; I want to watch the dancing again, I wish to see the movements made by the girls and their Pokémon – and I want to look at _him_. I so desperately want to look at him – my fervour is surprising even me. I frown to myself, my eyes now fixed upon my fingernails. I had a very quick glance at him when we first came in, and it had appeared then that my brain _hadn't_ been lying to me. I don't know how I ever imagined that it could – how could my brain possibly form an image like _that_ without help? But it isn't the confirmation of his beauty that's confusing me…rather it's my own state of mind. My fury, my disbelief, my overall consuming jealously and hatred of him has…gone. All I want to do is look at him, but I can't understand why. I've seen him before after all. My leg twitches, and I try to swallow. My mouth is even drier than it was before.

 _What's your problem, Eusine?_

I know my problem. That unexplainable reaction of the nervous system; my brain is telling my body to stay where it is, not to raise my head, to keep my eyes lowered. But my nerves and muscles are against me; they're screaming to move, to allow my spine to straighten and my neck to lift. To allow my eyes to glance upwards…

He's sat on the stage edge just as he was last time. Perfectly upright, his legs are crossed at the ankles. Were it not for the utter straightness of his figure, I would presume he was sleeping; his neck is tilted back slightly, his chin lifted, and yet his eyes are closed. I marvel at the blatant 'Ecruteakness' of him. His skin is a smooth, flawless tan, his hair golden, the lighter strands glinting in the warm light from the overhead lamps. His eyes, I presume, will be a clear, summer blue - like his cousin's.

I have never seen another human being sit as still as he does. I continue to stare, astounded at his statue-like tranquillity. He seems not quite human, not quite real. For what mortal living creature can achieve such a sense of stillness that they almost cease to _be_? My brain is overwrought for, at the same time as being as completely motionless as a piece of furniture, he somehow takes up the whole room. And it's not just me.

The Director's eyes keep flitting back to where he is motionlessly, contentedly sitting. The old Sage with whom he was speaking earlier is more brazen; he is staring openly at the young man atop the stage, his rheumy eyes unwavering. And the kimono girls, the dancers – every turn they make, every inclination of the head, and seven pairs of eager eyes are drawn to him. I raise my head to observe him again, and my heart leaps into my mouth. My eyes snap back to the dirty laces of my trainers – but not before he noticed. He didn't appear to have moved an inch, and yet his eyes had opened. He is still watching me. I can still feel it, his gaze, burning the top of my head. My hands begin to tremble, and I clench them into fists. The roaring in my ears starts up, and the familiar flush of uncomfortable heat travels up from the base of my neck to stain my cheeks. Nausea causes my stomach to roll and jerk, and the floor spins. I begin to gasp in lungfuls of oxygen, willing myself to stay conscious, but the incense is choking me, causing my throat to sting and my eyes to burn. The last thing I need is a scene with him here to observe it. I need to get out, to get some air. Thankfully my body appears to be listening to me for once; my head stops spinning slightly and the darkness at the edges of my sight appears to be fading. I at least think I'm beyond collapsing. I manage to stand. My knees are a little wobbly, but I'm able to support myself. Keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the ground, I head towards the door, subconsciously keeping to the sides of the hall so as not to disturb the dance.

-o-

The next few months pass quietly. I don't mention the dance school to Callisto, and whatever she sees in my face, or reads in my behaviour, prevents her from mentioning it too. Despite our unspoken agreement not to talk about my involvement, or lack of, with the dance school, she and I get on very nicely. We're still sharing the small studio flat, however, my new job means that Callisto doesn't have to provide all of the rent money. To my surprise, despite spending almost every day there, I was offered a position at Ecruteak's Library, and for the first time in my life I have my own money to spend. I'm not used to such a luxury. Although most of my meagre earnings go towards the rent and water bills, I tend to have a little left over at the end of the month. Back in Celadon City, any spare money that came my way would have been spent on a book. However, this feels like a ridiculous use of money considering where I now work. Instead I save this money; I hope that by doing so I can ascertain that I need never move back to Celadon. Ecruteak has become my home.

Although relatively content with my simple existence, I can't help but feel like the 'edge' has been taken out of life. I wonder if I'm mad. I'm finally free of my accursed father and brother – so why on earth do I feel _bored_? I certainly don't miss being kept on my toes, always looking over my shoulder, and wincing automatically whenever I dare to voice an opinion, but feeling safe does seem to warrant a flatness that I'm not used to. I contemplate this when the library is particularly quiet. I tell myself that I'll start a book club, or join a class of some variety. I never do however; I'm simply happy with the prospect of it being a potential in the future, never having the spunk to go out there and make the most of something. This is, I know, partly what my father loathed in me. I wasn't born to seize opportunities; instead I'm content knowing that they are there as an option, with no real obligation attached.

The library is almost dead in the summer months. People don't seem to enjoy sitting indoors turning crinkling pages when the sun is out. Ecruteak summers are very warm, much warmer than they are in Celadon. Although I can hardly be considered an outdoor person, I still received a shock when I recently caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror; I tend to avoid mirrors as a general rule, and so I hadn't realised just how brown my face and neck had become compared with my chest and arms. I contemplated buying a short-sleeved t-shirt to attempt to get some sun on my arms, but I decided against it. The thought of clothes shopping makes me feel slightly ill.

It really is very somnolent working in a silent library. I make another round, ensuring that all books are in their correct places on the shelves and that none are left out on the tables. It's a habit more than anything, and a chance to stretch my legs. Nobody has set foot in the library since ten o'clock this morning, so I know for certain nothing will be out of place.

"Eusine?"

I glance at my watch in disbelief. It's two o'clock, and my shift is over.

"Eusine? Are you there?"

"Yes! I'm here," I call as I round the corner to see Heather, the principal librarian, at the information desk. She smiles in relief when she spots me.

"I was wondering where you'd gone!"

I give her a bland smile in return – as if I would have left. It's not like I have anything else to do.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning at eight then?" she continues.

"On the dot, have a good evening."

"You too Eusine, take care honey."

-o-

The sun is scorching hot. I can feel it prickling my skin. I don't want to stay outside in it, but nor do I want to return to the flat which is, if possible, even hotter. Top floor flats don't get a lot of air, and Callisto and I can't afford an air conditioning unit. I wander through town, taking routes that I don't normally take in order to stick to the shade. I can feel a bead of sweat trickling down my back. I roll up my long sleeves and seriously consider that t-shirt.

I find myself in the town centre, and I'm drawn to the fine spray coming from the light splashing of water from the main fountain. It's a huge structure of black marble, twice my height, carved to depict Ho-Oh. Its wings are spread, and its sharp beak is open wide. From the tips of its wings and from its open mouth jets of water are gushing to land in the pool at the base of the fountain. I sit on the edge and sigh in relief as I feel the water droplets settling on the back of my neck. It's stupid, I think to myself, why a Pokémon so closely associated with fire, a _fire-type_ Pokémon even, has been represented in fountain form.

It's difficult to relax in such unbearable heat, but it's made even harder by the over-excited chattering of strangers. I open one eye in irritation to see a group of people clustered around the entrance to the Tin Tower. I take note of their identical grey robes and bare feet. Huh. The Sages then. I find myself wondering what's got them so flustered, and then I spot a golden head amongst the bald pates. I duck my head down quickly, and screw my eyes shut again. However, without my sense of sight in use, my hearing becomes sharper.

"…and then what?"

The voice is old and creaky, but the chattering dies down, and I can feel the awe in the following silence. And then he speaks. Without looking, I know it's him. Who else could possess a voice so unctuous, so self-assured? The arrogance all but drips from what I know to be his smug mouth.

"You know it's not easy for me to explain…the Firelight doesn't communicate in words."

"But you must have _something_ for us, something new we can work with?"

My spine stiffens and I feel my nostrils flare. Pathetic. He's obviously making out that he'd just been talking with _Ho-Oh_. Sweet _heaven_ these old men were desperate - and stupid to boot. How can they believe that any of this tosh is real? I can't listen to any more of it. Irrationally angry now, I make my way back to mine and Callisto's flat, hardly paying attention to where I'm going, and hardly noticing the midday sun beating down ferociously upon my head.

"Hey," Callisto smiles as I let myself inside. Her clear blue eyes widen as she gets a good look at me, "what on earth happened to you?"

Frowning I move to the bathroom to see a shining red beacon staring back at me from the mirror. I touch my fingers tentatively to my cheeks and wince. Sunburn. Brilliant.

 **AN: so, those of you who know me well by now, this fic is a little challenge of sorts that I've set myself. I've never really written anything in first person before, so I'd love to hear any opinions on the writing/story itself – good or bad!**

 **Love A. xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

I'm glad there are no mirrors in the library, because the following day I can physically feel my face peeling. Not something I particularly want to see, especially considering I avoid looking at my face in its regular state. The library is dead - as usual. I drum my fingers against the help desk with increasing rapidity. However, it doesn't speed up the time, and so I stop. I don't know what's wrong with me today, but I can barely concentrate on my book. My mind keeps wandering, and my muscles feel unusually restless. I swallow audibly. The truth is I _do_ know exactly what's wrong with me, and I'm desperately trying to push it from my mind. My experience yesterday at the fountain keeps replaying in my head. I can remember, with alarming clarity, the oiliness of his voice, and the way his golden hair glimmered in the rays of the sun. I hardly remember ever feeling so profoundly irritated and disgusted by another human being, and yet somehow, I want to see and hear more of him in order to fuel my hatred. I've never really disliked anybody before. Of course I'm not including my father and my brother, but, although it sickens me to admit it, it was more fear and shame that I felt around them rather than _dislike_. And although, by their own standards, they have nothing on Morty with regards to looks or, as rumour has it, skill, the idea of _him_ doesn't make me feel frightened or ashamed. His 'otherness' is so alien to me, so far away from what I could ever hope to be, that somehow I cannot feel inadequate next to him. I've come to realise that there can never _be_ a comparison between him and I – and this in itself is liberating. It's not that I don't find his utter obsession with himself nauseating, quite the contrary in fact, but this 'dislike' I feel has a certain freshness to it. _This_ is an emotion that doesn't make me feel weak for experiencing it.

And so I find myself here again, at a quarter past two, sitting on the edge of the Ho-Oh fountain. Today isn't quite as hot; there's a persistent breeze that, coupled with the water spray, is actually making me feel chilly. I don't move though – not until I've seen him. I can feel the seat of my jeans getting damp, but I can't budge. I have the perfect view of the Tin Tower entrance here, and I can't wait to hear him speak again, to hear him smarm at the Sages, and to see the small smirk that I know will shape his lips. Repulsive. I can't _wait_ to hate him again. It makes my day far more interesting after what has become the oppressive silence of the library.

I check my watch. Half past two. My eyes flicker to the entrance of the Tin Tower. There are no Sages gathered there today, and no sign of _him_ either, but I'm certain that he'll come, that he would never miss a chance to show off. The breeze grows stronger – it's now a definite wind, and I haven't brought a coat. The seat of my jeans is very damp now, and I can feel the chill spreading down the backs of my thighs. I give a convulsive shiver.

Ten to three. I want to wait, I really do, but now I've realised just how cold I am, I can hardly bear it. My fingers are like ice, and they feel numb and slow when I try to move them. I sigh heavily and stand stiffly, disappointment coursing through me with surprising strength. I suppose 'Ho-Oh' just doesn't appear on Tuesday afternoons…

I start to make my way slowly home, grateful to be free of the fountain spray. It's much warmer in the sunlight, and sensation begins to return to my toes. Ecruteak City is far, far older than Celadon, and the streets are wider, having previously accommodated Pokémon-drawn carriages. I know my way around very well by now, my feet subconsciously finding their way around street lights and dustbins, road signs and uneven paving stones. I'm therefore surprised when my journey is impeded. The couple walking ahead of me appear to have stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. I crane my neck, trying to figure out what the hold-up is. My confusion grows when I notice other pedestrians simply stopping in their tracks. There's no commotion as far as I can see, no accident or spectacle up ahead. There aren't even any sounds to give away what's going on. The people around me are strangely quiet, and yet nevertheless there is an air of excitement. Suddenly, a shrill female voice starts up.

"I think it made a real difference from last time, don't you? I really _feel_ like Flareon and I are making progress – _real_ progress –"

The voice cuts off sharply, as though waiting for an answer, but none comes. I raise myself onto the tips of my toes, wishing I was a good few inches taller, for so many people have stopped now that I can barely see five metres in front of my face.

"Don't you think?" the same voice pipes up again. It sounds slightly different this time; nervous, and even a little panicked, but the person the voice was addressing finally decides to answer.

"You need to remodel the way you're thinking about this," a low, musical voice replies, "the whole concept of Self Contemplation becomes meaningless when there's an 'end goal' in sight. We want to continue to strive to become closer to our Pokémon, to further deepen those connections…if you think of it as 'progress' then the results you desire won't ever be achieved, it's not a form of work but, rather, art."

The female voice splutters and croaks, but cannot seem to think of a reply. I see the townspeople around me nodding and exchanging knowing glances. And then I see him. When he walks the crowds automatically part to allow him passage. Eyes flicker towards him when he passes, and yet he appears completely oblivious to the sensation he's causing, his own eyes fixed easily in front of him. The man in front of me steps to the side, and suddenly Morty's in front of me, closer than I have ever seen him. His gaze shifts, and he's no longer looking straight ahead, but right at me. I freeze, my feet planted onto the concrete pavement. All the blood in my body surges down into my legs, making them leaden. My shoulders tense and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle uncomfortably. All of this in a split second – for that's the length of time his glance lasts. His appearance in the street, although lasting only a few seconds, has had a profound effect on the townspeople. They begin to blink, to smile incredulously, shaking their heads as though something fantastical has occurred. Why _does_ he cause this reaction in people? Why do their eyes follow his every move? The jealousy that I assumed had been put to rest for good flares within me once more. Now that I'm away from my father and my brother, I realise, for the first time in my life, that I'm not content with fading into the background. My bloodline is one of the most ancient in Ecruteak City – _just_ as ancient as Callisto and Morty's - and I want this realised. I want people to stop in awe when they see _me_ – I want them to think I'm something special too.

-o-

After a long while I decide on multiple shades of purples, reds, and pale blues. Something about these colours exactly sums up what I want to portray. They're rich and mysterious and out of the ordinary. The styles I've chosen are also out of the ordinary. I've never seen Morty wearing shirts or jackets with as many ruffles and flounces as mine. He wears what appear to be scruffy old jeans and boots; my trousers are fresh and tailored and bright, and my highly shined leather boots have a slight heel to them which, I think, adds to the overall sophistication of my new wardrobe. The red silk scarf wasn't really necessary, but it gives me something extra – and I want to be as flamboyant as I possibly can be. No more fading into the background.

I'm contented with my bulging carrier bags of new purchases. Nearly all of my money, carefully saved, has now gone, but it's surely worth it. I can save up again – it only took me about six months to save that sum anyway. I begin to hum to myself, and I hold my chin up higher as I walk through the city. My new boots click in a satisfying way upon the cobbled streets, and I can hear the expensive swish of my jacket as my arms brush against my sides.

I catch sight of myself reflected in the glass of a nearby shop window. The spring in my step suddenly fades. The clothes I don't regret – in fact they look even better than I could have hoped – but they look ridiculous on _me_. My impression is that the person wearing these fantastic clothes is simply not worthy of them; they are far too grand for my peaky, sallow face and my lank, thin hair.

I see my reflection burn a fiery red as the blood rushes upwards towards my face. I begin to run homeward, my boots now a hindrance rather than an asset. Faster and faster I run, the ostentatious, glossy shopping bags banging painfully against my thighs. The boots are not made for running – their smooth, shiny soles send me sprawling to the ground, my knees crashing painfully to the cobblestones beneath me. I don't think to check my brand new trousers for holes, all I can do is force myself up off the ground, and continue running desperately for cover.

-o-

My trousers aren't torn, thankfully. There are some dirty patches on the knees, but I think they should come out in the wash. My eyes follow the dark purple fabric as it spins and sloshes in the washing machine. I manage to take a full breath for the first time since catching sight of myself in the town. Now that I'm safe and alone I'm better able to reflect. I don't know what I was really expecting – that a new wardrobe would completely transform my looks, change my hair to blond and my skin to a golden tan? I snort. Yes – I had more or less envisaged this to happen. I move to the bathroom. Despite the emptiness of the flat I suddenly feel ridiculous, dressed as I am in my underpants and my ruffled shirt and flounced jacket. I remove the remaining garments carefully and place them gently on the towel rail, before turning to scrutinise myself in the spotted, smeary mirror.

I don't properly look at myself really – _ever_. I know I'm not good-looking, and I don't want to be continually reminded of that fact. But this is different, I'm looking now so I can see what changes can be made – if any.

My eyes; they're a dark grey blue, and my lashes are dark too. There's nothing much I can do here besides wearing contact lenses, and I'm not about to go that far. My eye colour I can deal with.

My nose; it's pretty nondescript I suppose. I've never taken much notice of it before. I suppose this must be a positive? It's not so hideous that I've previously had any thoughts on it…

My chin; it's rather pointy, and makes the bottom half of my face look off-balanced somehow, but like with my eyes, there's nothing I can do about it.

My skin; the one thing I can say for it is that's I haven't any spots. There are a few freckles across my nose and my cheeks but nothing more off-putting. Overall I have a greyish, dull complexion…I guess I could try and get some more sun? I'm not sure if more sun will help with the dark circles under my eyes. I'm probably going to have to look into my sleeping and dietary habits.

My teeth; they're fairly white, but they're not very straight; one of my front teeth overlaps the other slightly, and the tooth next to that one is a little crooked too. But like my eyes, and like my chin, there's no affordable, or non-invasive, option to change them.

My hair is…dreadful. To put it lightly. I've never really paid it any attention – partly because I never look in mirrors. In Celadon City, my father used to pay the old lady next door a fiver to cut mine and Tristan's hair once a month or so – she put a bowl on our heads to get the shape and everything – truly awful. Since my last cut, well over six months ago, my hair has grown – but it's grown all over the place. It's lopsided and uneven, reaching well below my chin. It's lank too, lying flat against my skull. I wash it every day with soap when I shower, but it always looks greasy…

-o-

My hair, at least, can be salvaged. I make my way back to town, in my regular clothes – I wasn't about to make that mistake again – and find myself, for the first time in my life, sitting in a hair salon. The middle-aged hairdresser fingers my strands with distaste. After trying to convince her that I hadn't tried to cut my hair myself, she gets to work with a great sigh.

It feels incredibly alien, having my hair washed by someone else, but I can't deny how pleasant it is. All of the tension leaves my shoulders, and my eyelids begin to droop…

"What is it you want doing, then?"

"Hunugh?" is my articulate reply.

"Your hair – what do you want me to do?"

"Er -" I probably should have thought this through – I have no idea what I want, and even if I did I would have no idea how to ask for it, "can you just…um…" my face begins to burn. All I can think of is his thick, golden waves – but even _I_ know that wouldn't be achievable on my hair.

I can see the hairdresser trying to repress an eye-roll with difficulty.

"Shall I just do what I think'll suit you?"

"Yes please," I reply with gratitude.

Over an hour later I leave the salon and, despite the fact that I look nothing like _him_ , I'm very, very happy, because I look absolutely nothing like myself. I'd assumed that the hairdresser had dyed my hair or something, because the brown shade is so much lighter than before, now the hair isn't plastered to my head. But she just gave me a strange look and a shampoo and conditioner sample, and told me to use it every day instead of the bar of soap. Huh. I guess I have nothing to lose. It's not just the colour that's different though – she's styled it somehow – a 'low maintenance' style she called it. The hair on the back of my head is a lot shorter than the front, but she's made the front look interesting – she's parted it dramatically and it sweeps across my face in a shiny, floppy mass.

It suits me, and I think I just might finally suit my clothes.

-o-

In the library once more.

What's the good of having new clothes and new hair if there's nobody around to see it? Nevertheless, I need this job - I need to start saving again now that I've spent literally all of my earnings – my last few coins I spent on shampoo and conditioner – it's amazing how different it makes my hair – so soft, and so shiny too.

The library is deathly quiet. I find it amusing how in my early days here, I had found this silence so fascinating, so comforting. Now it's just mind-numbingly boring. Being surrounded by books constantly has also dampened my enthusiasm for them. So I sit here in silence, my chin resting in my hand, subconsciously counting the echoing ticks sounding from the second hand on the large clock hanging above the help desk.

I hear the main door open – or rather, the sound of the traffic outside is magnified momentarily – so I know someone has come in. I don't bother to open my eyes. It would appear that most people wander in here by mistake, and thus I never actually see their faces. I can't even remember the last time someone actually approached the helpdesk and asked me a question.

"It's Eusine…isn't it?"

My eyes fly open, and I start in shock. I had had no idea that someone was at the desk, I had heard no footsteps, nor did I have the slightest awareness that I was no longer the only human being in this vast, silent space.

And then my senses catch up with me. I register who the person is. An electric current runs down my spine at his proximity to me, I sit up, ramrod straight. My mouth falls open in shock, and my voice fails me. I had never imagined to find myself in this situation, not in a million years.

He doesn't seem perturbed by my reaction; he watches my face calmly, a relaxed, natural smile upon his lips, his eyes warm and friendly. Still, I remain speechless.

His long, thick, bright gold hair is held back from his face with a wide, navy headband. His hair curls slightly around his ears and at the nape of his neck, glimmering softly in the overhead lamps. His eyebrows form a delicate arch; they are darker than his hair - a golden brown. His lashes, however, are an inky black, and his eyes – which I had always presumed to be clear blue like his other family members, are a most astonishing shade: a pale, lavender-lilac, the rim of the iris a deeper shade; violet. His nose is straight and his cheekbones are well-pronounced, casting a slight shadow upon his cheeks. For the second time, I detect that there is something timeless about him, something _ancient_ in his young, fresh face. His skin is a golden tan, and perfectly flawless, running smoothly from his face down to his neck, highlighting the tendons that move fluidly underneath the muscle. His jawline is sharp, angular, and I can just see a faint golden stubble, joining with the hair curling about his ears. Up close now, I notice that he wears a silver hoop high up in one ear.

I'm not sure how long I've simply sat there staring at him, but he does not speak again. I realise soon enough that he had in fact asked me a question - that he was waiting for a reply. Perhaps he is used to people gaping at him, because he doesn't appear to find my behaviour strange in the slightest.

"Yes," I finally tell him, "that's me."

"Hi," he said, his lips curving upwards into a smile, "Callisto mentioned that you worked here."

My mind freezes. I have absolutely no reply for him. I still cannot comprehend what he is doing here, why he is _here_ of all places, talking to _me_ of all people. My glimpses of him have always been so fleeting compared with the amount of hours I have spent stewing over my hatred of him that I'm now finding it incomprehensible that he's actually here in front of me – that he's an actual human being who moves and speaks and _breathes_. His chest rises and falls as he watches me; evenly, naturally. He is as completely at ease as I am overwrought. He is my polar opposite in every way, and I continue to gape, open-mouthed.

"I've been meaning to come and find you."

Everything he says is perfectly natural and forthright. He has no apprehension about speaking the truth, speaking whatever exactly is on his mind.

"Y-you have?"

"Yes. Callisto says you don't have any interest in Pokémon."

I remain silent. As does he. My eyes finally drop downwards to stare at my new boots. I can still feel his penetrating purple gaze on my face.

"Did she?" I finally mumble.

"Yes, she did. Why is that?"

I look up at him again. There is now a small crease between his delicate eyebrows; his head is tilted slightly to the left, his bottom lip held gently between his front teeth. My eyes are drawn to his mouth.

"I've never liked Pokémon," I reply on autopilot.

"Are you scared of them?" he asks frankly.

"No," I reply just as frankly, "I just know they don't like _me_."

I'm speaking the truth, but I can't understand why I'm telling him this.

"We'll see about that," he says, his smile growing fractionally wider, "it was good to meet you, Eusine."

"You too," I croak.

He has already turned away, and is walking towards the exit without a backward glance. My senses have been on standby. Now that he's gone I can feel my pulse racing, I can feel the slick sweat coating the palms of my hands and beading my upper lip. My breath comes in laboured gasps, and I sit down in an attempt to steady myself.

It takes me a good few minutes before I can control my breathing and stop my head swimming, but when a sense of normalcy returns I begin to recall the conversation in humiliating clarity. He must think me demented – hardly able to string a sentence together. _Why_ did he have to come and find me? _Why_ had Callisto told him where I worked? I was perfectly happy before coming face to face with him…it was so enjoyable to hate him from a distance – now I just feel…unsettled.

It only hits me later on when I make my way slowly home at the end of my shift. He hadn't even bothered introducing himself to me. He just rightly assumed that I would know who he was.

My fury ignites.


	4. Chapter 4

My new clothes certainly seem to have done the job. People are starting to take notice of me in the streets. Under any other circumstance, I would assume that they were looking at me because I looked stupid, or ugly, or something in that vein, but I've experienced enough of _that_ to know that it's different this time. They're looking at me because I look interesting, because I look _good_ for once. However, I still think it was Callisto's initial reaction that was the most satisfying:

"Eusine?" she had asked, her pale blue eyes wide with surprise. I remember having felt myself turn red – a habit of mine.

"Yes?" I'd mumbled, my eyes downcast.

"Eusine you look – you look…you look so _handsome_! So much older!"

She had laughed delightedly at my abashed reaction, and had spent many hours that evening helping me put my new clothes together into outfits, and helping me experiment with my new hair; not that it needed it – the hairdresser had really been very clever, and my hair fell naturally into its new sophisticated style with little to no effort on my part.

I happily relive this memory as I make my way home from a particularly tedious library shift. There hadn't been one customer all day, and I'd never been more relieved as when the clock struck five o'clock and I could lock up – I had been on the edge of losing my mind…

Out of nowhere, a person steps in front of me, blocking my path. I'm pulled from my reverie with an unpleasant shock, which soon turns to embarrassed horror. It's him.

"Eusine, did you not hear me calling your name?"

The way he says my name is strange; he pronounces every syllable clearly, his emphasis on the first, as though he enjoys forming the necessary shapes with his mouth.

"N-no, sorry," I stammer.

The corner of his mouth turns upwards in a half smile. I catch a flash of white teeth, and my eyes are drawn to the crease of his smile between his lips and his cheek. There is a small indentation there, as though he smiles this way often.

"What were you thinking about, to be so easily startled?" he asks me frankly, his unusual eyes staring into mine. He has no qualms about asking me this personal question, despite the fact he doesn't know me.

"What was I thinking about?" I repeat, my mind going blank. His eyes would be alien, were they not so fascinating.

"Yes," he continues patiently, his smile growing a little wider. Is he mocking me?

"Just now?" I ask.

"Just now," he confirms. He continues to stare pointedly at me with his strange eyes, and I find myself blurting out the truth.

"I was thinking about my new hair, and my clothes."

My face, no, my whole _body_ begins to flame almost as soon as the words have left my mouth. How utterly inane I must sound. But he does not laugh, nor does he appear revolted by my apparent self-preoccupation and vanity.

"Yes, I'd noted your recent change in appearance," he says nonchalantly.

My heart hammers beneath my ribs, and a strange something begins to furl and unfurl deep in my abdomen. He'd actually noticed?

I can't think of what to reply to him, and my voice doesn't seem to be working anyway. So we stand in an awkward silence – well, I feel awkward, I don't suppose he has ever felt awkward a day in his life with that natural self-assurance he has.

"I've been hoping to see you at the Dance School," he frowns, his head tilting to the left once more. I stare at him, dumbfounded. I went to the Dance School twice, over six months ago, but the way he phrases it, I'm an enthusiastic regular who randomly stopped attending.

"You have?" I croak.

"Of course," he replies, his frown deepening.

I gape at him, open-mouthed. I have nothing to say to that, absolutely nothing at all. He, however, doesn't seem to find anything strained in my reply. He either cannot see, or takes no notice of, my complete inability to function in his presence. In all honesty, he makes me feel surprisingly _normal_. I'm not used to people ignoring my social incompetence – I'm far too accustomed to sideways glances and impatient sighs as I struggle to keep up with the most simple of conversations.

"Maybe I'll see you next week?" he probes, his lilac eyes searching mine intently.

"Y-yeah…I guess so."

He flashes me a radiant smile at this, before giving me a small upward tilt of his head in a casual goodbye. He sidesteps around me, and is gone.

I've never met anyone like him. It's only long after our conversation – if one can even stretch to calling such a one-sided discourse a conversation – that I remember my previous fury with him for presuming that I knew who he was last week in the library.

Somehow, that fury has faded. I can't stay angry at him, I find him far too strange - too engaging. I had previously thought him conceited, and overly sure of himself, but now I can't decide. His manner, although envyingly self-confident, displays a sense of unearthliness – I get the impression that he's not always quite there. I don't mean I think he's mad, rather that he's seeing things behind those lilac eyes that only he can see, that only he can understand.

 _Pyrrhos Makarios_.

The name jumps into my head, but I shake it off. Just because he's a little different to anyone I've met doesn't mean that he has a special calling, that he's 'Blessed by Fire'. It must have affected him though, affected his childhood having everyone treat him like he's special, like he's some sort of messenger they've all been waiting for. For the first time, I feel pity for him.

-o-

 _A silver-grey flash of movement skids across the waves at lightning speed, but the sea beneath it remains smooth and calm, the surface undisturbed._

 _I squint more intently in an attempt to catch a glimpse, my hand shielding my eyes from the bright sun above._

 _Suddenly, the thing stops its blindingly fast journey. It turns towards me and, for the first time, I can make out its outline. It is leonine in shape, its grace astounding. An undulating purple mane ripples back from its magnificent head, and it surveys me through fathomless red eyes._

 _Pure longing eclipses everything. I want nothing more than to know this Pokémon, to communicate with it somehow._

 _I reach out my hand and, in a flash, it has gone._

-o-

I still can't quite believe that I'm here - but I told him I would be. I take my old seat at the side of the hall on the hard, wooden bench. The Kimono girls look twice when they spot me sitting here, and I think some of them look me up and down in interest. I can't be sure though – it's not as if I'm an expert in female attention. I've never had a girlfriend – I've never even _kissed_ anyone. I risk glancing at the girls, watching them as they throw back their long hair and chatter with each other. Being dancers, they all have slender figures and small waists. Their arms are slim and graceful, and their shoulders and backs straight. None of them in particular stand out to me. The one in the yellow kimono has dark red hair and a pretty laugh, and the one in the pink kimono has dainty little feet and wide dark eyes – but I still find Callisto, with her silvery blonde hair and her elfin face, the most beautiful of them all. I smile to myself, proud to be related to her.

The side door opens, and he comes in.

The atmosphere changes perceptibly. There is a static electricity and a thrum of expectation. Everything seems to flutter and glimmer more earnestly, and the voices of the girls rise in excitement. I see the girl in the red kimono, the one that had been talking to him in the street all those weeks ago; she has angled herself towards him; I can see her desperately trying to get a word in, her eyes swivelling between the snippets of conversation that he indulges in with such ease. Another girl, a brown haired one dressed in green, is becoming increasingly more pink in the face. I realise that Morty is speaking to her directly. Another girl, dressed in a plum coloured kimono is now trying to keep his attention; she is gesticulating to him, her eyes unnaturally bright, but Morty simply nods and gives her a small smile. He turns to Callisto, and his shoulders visibly relax. It's curious, for until he visibly 'let go', he gave no indication of being harried. With Callisto, however, he is truly comfortable. The other girls are visibly torn; they are clearly jealous that Callisto is receiving his attention, and yet she is his cousin – they have nothing to be jealous about. Nevertheless, I understand. Although there can be no romantic attraction between them, Morty and Callisto seem worlds apart, on another level. Morty somehow becomes more human when he speaks with her. He laughs more freely, and appears to joke more readily. The other girls hover around the pair, desperately trying to pick up the threads of their conversation – to join in, but there is no place for them. The cousins are equals, and one by one the girls move off through the hall, some sullen, some still glancing over their shoulders hopefully.

A pair of lilac eyes meet mine from across the hall, and I hurriedly drop my gaze to my knees.

 _Shoot. How long have you been staring at him, Eusine?! He's going to think you're a freak!_

After a few minutes of feeling the beads of sweat drip down my back, I hear the Director begin to issue orders. I risk glancing upwards. The Kimono girls are in position with their Pokémon, the lady on the shamisen is poised, ready to play, and Morty has taken his usual perch upon the edge of the stage. My gaze is drawn to him as if by a magnet. Again, I meet a pair of curious lilac eyes, and I look away instantly as though scalded.

 _For God's sake – that's twice now in less than five minutes he's caught you looking at him!_

It nearly kills me, and every muscle fights against my instinct, but I do not look at him for the rest of the session. I watch the dancers and their Pokémon and, despite having seen them perform before, I am still as awestruck as the first time.

But the session is long. I can appreciate the beauty and the intricacy of what the dancers and their Pokémon are achieving, but I don't know enough of the nature of Pokémon and their relationships with humans to be captivated for too long. My mind begins to wander, and soon enough I become stuck on a point that I can't answer.

Why am I here?

The answer is simple, I know that much – it's because Morty asked me to come. But _why_? Why did he ask me?

Again, the mood in the room perceptibly shifts. The tense, bewitching atmosphere is extinguished, and the electricity in the air falls flat. I look up. He has disappeared. I know that the Kimono girls feel his absence too. Their concentration falters, and the Pokémon become restless, having to be called sharply to order.

"Settle down everyone," the Director calls, as he holds up a small pudgy hand to the shamisen player. Without the reverberating, haunting music, any hint of remaining ambience fades; the room is now darker, the colours becoming dull, "I think you've all done splendidly this afternoon, but if you would kindly remove your kimonos, I think it would be wiser to continue our session tomorrow. Callisto – a word please, if I may? The rest of you, have a lovely evening."

The girls begin to chatter in earnest, and the hall is filled with flashes of red light as Pokémon are returned to their Pokéballs. Callisto sprints across the hall towards me, her pretty face beaming and her royal blue kimono getting tangled around her ankles.

"Eusine! You didn't tell me you were coming! Did you enjoy it? Do you think you're ready to give it all a try?"

Her blue eyes are sparkling, and her heart-shaped face shines with expectation. I don't have the heart to upset her.

"Er – maybe. It's still early days."

"Well we'll have to find you a Pokémon – I can ask Morty – he's brilliant at it, he can –"

"Callisto –" I interrupt in a strangled voice, but I'm saved by the Director.

"Over here Callisto!" he calls, "Come now, I have something to discuss with you!"

"I'll see you at home later," she gushes, turning around and gathering her skirts into her arms, "can you start dinner? I don't know how long I'll be!"

I can't help but smile after her retreating back, although I feel guilty that I'll be telling her later that I certainly don't want a Pokémon – and even if I did, there's no way she'd catch me dancing with it.

-o-

I open the oven door to check on the chips, but they're nowhere near done, which is lucky because Callisto still isn't home – I've been back for almost an hour now. I'm just contemplating whether it's time enough for me to start worrying about her, when her key sounds in the lock.

She all but runs into the kitchen, her silky hair cascading into her eyes, and her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Oh, Eusine," she gasps, taking me by the arm and spinning me around with her as she laughs breathlessly, "it's been the most _fantastic_ evening!"

"What's happened?" I find myself grinning, her happiness is infectious.

"Well two things really," she tells me, her chest heaving with the great breaths she's taking, "firstly, _Ho-Oh_ came to Morty again – that's why he left so abruptly."

These words hit me like a slap in the face. I had almost forgotten about his supposed meetings with 'Ho-Oh'; I had begun to think of him as human, as perhaps someone I may be able to befriend in the future – but Callisto's statement brings all of my ideals crashing down and I feel the beginnings of derision stir within me again. What utter tosh – Ho-Oh does not exist and everyone who believes what Morty is telling them is only kidding themselves. Callisto doesn't see the change in my facial expression, however. She's still soaring on her news.

"And – the Director has just made me the principal dancer!"

I blink – all disdainful thoughts put to one side.

"Callisto that's…that's amazing!"

"Thank you!" she squeals, grabbing my face and planting a large kiss on my forehead, "it's all I've ever wanted, ever since I was tiny!"

"I'm so happy for you," I tell her genuinely. And she deserves it – she's clearly the most skilled of all the dancers there, the most connected to her Pokémon.

"I'm sure you'll be even happier to have this place to yourself," she laughs, "a real bed for the first time in over six months!"

"What?" I ask blankly.

"Well, I'll have to move out? As principal dancer I get free bed and board at the dance school so I can fully concentrate on my Self Contemplation…so I won't need to work at the bakery anymore."

"You're moving out?!"

"I thought you'd be ecstatic to have the place to yourself…?" she says slowly, surveying me with guarded eyes.

"Callisto – I can't afford it on my own!"

I can hear the panic in my own voice; I sound unnervingly high-pitched and desperate. It makes me sick to my stomach, but it's the truth.

The blood drains from her lovely face, and her lower jaw falls open.

"What do you mean?" she whispers, "what about all your savings? I know it's not the cheapest option, but surely you can pay a couple of month's rent yourself whilst you look for a more affordable place?"

"I have no savings," I say hoarsely, my eyes beginning to prickle with tears.

"No…no savings?"

"I spent them on those stupid clothes," I mumble in a horrified monotone. I start to feel cold all over.

"You spent all your money?! Every last penny?!" she shrieks.

I can only nod.

"Eusine…how much were those fucking clothes?!"

"A lot," I gulp, "I…I never expected to be in this position I…I was going to start saving up again…my next paycheque is the end of this month…"

"But how can you have been so irresponsible?! I don't even have any savings to sub you until the end of the month – and both you and I know your paycheque won't cover the rent anyway – let alone the bills!"

I feel a tear roll steadily down my cheek. Callisto stops screaming at me, and chews on her lip, her blue eyes troubled.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to have a go…surely _someone_ can help? Your dad can lend you a bit – right?"

My father. Lend me money. My stomach churns and I will myself not to vomit. Callisto must see the change in my face, she begins to wring her hands together nervously.

"Call him," she whispers croakily, "call him now."

I haven't heard from either my father or Tristan since I left Celadon City. My hands begin to shake. Callisto hands me the landline phone, her face the colour of lumpy porridge. I dial my father's mobile number automatically. They had supposedly gone out to sea, to hunt that Pokémon – Suicune? Hopefully he won't answer. But I need him to answer. I desperately need him to.

"Hello?"

His voice is crackly, as though very, very far distant, but I can still make out his sharp, nasal tone.

"D-dad it's me…Eusine."

There's silence at the other end of the phone. Hot mortification tingles up my spine and I heave.

"H-hello?"

"What do you want?"

"I…Dad, I need some money for – for rent."

Silence again. Another tear rolls down my cheek. I feel dirty for asking, I feel ashamed and insignificant. An insignificant hindrance.

"It's not my problem, is it?" he snaps, "go and hock your hole if you're that desperate."

He hangs up. Speechlessly I hand Callisto back the phone. It takes everything I have to choke back my sob, and so I merely shake my head; she doesn't need to hear the vile things he says to me.

"Okay…" she says quietly, her brow furrowed, "okay. Don't worry Eusine, you just get yourself to bed. Have a nice long sleep. It'll be all right, I swear it will. I'll sort something out. Don't you worry about a thing…"

I nod. Her voice, although speaking nonsense, is soothing. I don't realise that's she's trying to calm me down, that she can plainly see the lack of self-worth etched upon my face. I don't know that it scares her, that after having one thirty second conversation with my father, I revert back to looking like the hounded, beaten, animal I was when I first arrived here.


End file.
